


CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS

by LaRondine (messier31)



Series: champagne problems. [1]
Category: La Rondine - Puccini/Adami/Willner & Reichert
Genre: Backstory, Better safe than sorry though, Blood, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Depression, Doctors & Physicians, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Mild Blood, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Nurses, Panic Attacks, Personal Growth, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Prostitution, Recovery, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, is this a fix-it? i guess it can be a fix-it, just remember how soft i am for all of the characters, maternal figures, opera fic, talking about feelings, yes i know these tags are alarming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29814075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messier31/pseuds/LaRondine
Summary: «your mom's ring in your pocketmy picture in your walletyour heart was glass, I dropped itchampagne problems»Post-Rondine Magda-centric story.**warning: contains discussions of depression, self-harm, and attempted suicide.**
Relationships: Magda de Civry & Original Female Character, Magda de Civry & good mental health (slowburn), Magda de Civry/Rambaldo Fernandez (past), Magda de Civry/Ruggero Lastouc, Prunier (La Rondine)/Lisette (La Rondine)
Series: champagne problems. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2193294
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written january/february 2021; title and lyrics are taken from the song of the same name by taylor swift (although this idea was born in september, well before evernote came out).
> 
> d, thanks for helping me write; c, thanks for helping me edit; s, thanks for being my biggest cheerleader. here's to mental hospital horny, bau doppelgangers, pink polka dot bow ties, and well-deserved happy endings!
> 
> please be advised that this story contains content pertaining to suicide, suicidal ideation, depression, and self-harm. if you're struggling with any of these, please know that it's not something you should have to live with. get the help you need. you deserve it. 
> 
> xox, la rondine

And so she returned. 

Like a swallow to its nest she returned, back to Rambaldo, back to Paris and its glittering soirees and decadent parties, its faux laughter and empty smiles. She returned, and she told herself that she had to. She told herself it was right, that her life with Ruggero had been nothing but falsehoods and pretty lies, and that she had earned the pain she felt, deserved it. She told herself all these things, and dared herself to believe them.

Weeks turned to months. Paris waxed and waned before her eyes. The heaviness in her chest grew like a black leech, gaining strength and power even as she faded. 

The girls seldom came around after she returned, Yvette, Bianca, Suzy, all the others. They had found new friends in the time she was gone. She could hardly blame them. And if Rambaldo had noticed any change in her disposition, he hadn't said anything. He was doing his best, and she faulted him not. It was by his good graces that she was here now, even as she suspected he tired of her dispirit, even as she recoiled at his every touch. Lisette, dear as she was, had not said anything, nor had any of the house staff. They continued leaving meals outside her door and bringing fresh flowers that wilted in her darkened rooms. Life continued as if nothing had changed. 

Prunier had noticed, on those days he came round the house. He'd talked to her in a gentle voice about strength and grief and all sorts of that poetic nonsense he picked up from the salons in the artists' quarter. His visits were a blessing, a small comfort as she struggled to resume the life she had so abruptly left and picked up again. But he could not heal her. And besides, she thought, he had Lisette now. Her problems were her own and only her own, she had told herself time and time again. 

Even now it was difficult to believe otherwise. But she tried. Sitting in the darkened hallway, holding her breath, struggling to listen through the thick door, she knew she had to believe. Otherwise, she would never be free. 

"Thank you all for coming today... This meeting is to determine the state of the patient..." a muffled voice drawled. A rustle of papers. "Mademoiselle Magda de Civry... for either discharge or continued admittance to the ward. Who would like to begin?"

A new voice, another man. He cleared his throat. "I can start. As you know, the patient was admitted January the first of this year after being found unresponsive. A suicide attempt was made by means of cutting the wrist and forearm with glass. Upon admission, it was reported that the patient had been in a depressive humor in the past months because of relationship or interpersonal conflicts, which were not further detailed at time of admission. She had appeared to return to her usual high spirits towards the end of December, which may now be interpreted as an occurrence of pre-suicidal behaviors..."

The memories lingered at the edges of her mind. 

Looking at herself a final time in the gilded mirror, bangs and jewels and evening gown, and those hollow eyes she no longer recognized as her own.

The tinkle of shattering glass. Blood on her hands, red against the beautiful geometric white and gold tile. The sweetness of her perfume mixing with the iron kiss of blood. Oh, God, how it hurt, what she had done. 

Cold bathroom tile pressing against her cheek, her head full of gas, her body heavy. 

Darkness. Stillness. Silence. Peace


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //okk i feel so awkward having to add this but i feel like it got confusing when I broke it into chapters so: this takes place on the same day as the previous scene. the story is told via flashbacks while magda listens to the doctors talk. just in case that was confusing. sorry.

"...The patient was unconscious and unresponsive upon arrival to the Hôpital la Pitié-Salpêtrière in Paris on the first of January, and was further sedated to facilitate treatment. The lacerations on her arm were indeed life-threatening and it is likely that she would have died from massive hemorrhage if she had been discovered any later. Once the patient was stabilized, she was moved here and kept under sedation and monitoring for six days. That brings us to..." 

The man paused, turning more pages. "...ah, the sixth of January. Yes. Patient's physical condition was considered stable enough to begin tapering down the dose of sedatives in order to make a better assessment of the mental and psychoemotional condition..."

Her mind had been clouded by the steady stream of barbiturates seeping into her blood, so that she did not even remember waking up. Only knowing grey, shadows, trapped in an eternal twilight between this world and the next. She was never alone those first days, watched every waking moment by a rotating brigade of nurses in stiff white linen. She cared for nothing. She felt nothing. She slipped in and out of drugged sleep until the world settled into hazy focus once more, and she was forced to live with the consequences of her actions.

"Patient was compliant with the work of the nurses, and presented no difficulties when changing the dressings, eating or drinking. The latter two are particularly promising signs when looking at a patient's chances of recovery..." 

They'd kept her on morphine for the first few days, injected into her uninjured arm every few hours. To her memory now, each of those days was little but a dream. The cuts were deep, she'd been told. There were stitches running up and down her forearm, holding her together at the seams. She couldn't bring herself to look at what she'd done, not until she'd forgotten to look away one afternoon, had caught sight of her arm, ugly and pinched and red, a twisted, carved-up mess. Her stomach had dropped; the nurse had called for aid, afraid she'd pass out. She hadn't. The sight lingered in her mind nonetheless. 

In Paris, someone had packed a bag that had travelled here with her, random bits of clothing, slips and kimonos and robes and nightgowns, gathered and tossed together without care or affection. She took a small relief in knowing that Lisette had likely had nothing to do with the process; perhaps she had been spared the bloodshed after all. 

She looked down at her arm now, covered only in a thin layer of gauze, more as a kindness than anything else. The scars beneath were strange and unfamiliar still, almost as if she could not remember making them herself, those deep, angry gashes wrapping around her forearm like puffy pink vines. Though she recalled the actions clearly in her mind, they were strangely detached, as if watching a film of someone else. She would never work as a courtesan again, that was certain. Not unless long sleeves suddenly came back into vogue. 

At least here, nobody cared. There were other women in the ward, some like her with shiny scars on arms and legs and necks, some depressed, some epileptic, one who didn't speak at all. They came and went quietly from the hospital, each in their own little world of white walls and white linen, until they were moved or discharged or simply seemed to disappear altogether. Strange as it seemed, it was comforting to become one of the faceless many that would pass through these study walls. Many had come before her; the insane and poor had died in these walls, the consumptive had wasted in these beds; boys in tattered blue coats had called for their mothers in these halls. Some died and some lived, just as she would die, or she would live. 

Distantly, the man cleared his throat, and she pressed her ear to the door once more. "Although I supervised the admission and initial treatment of Mademoiselle de Civry, it was Docteur De Villiers who orchestrated much of her inpatient psychological treatment, and I believe at this point it would be most appropriate to defer to him." 

She had met De Villiers once for each week she'd been there. Tall, greying, he reminded her a little too much of Rambaldo, the last person she wanted to see now. It was hardly his fault. Could she blame him for that bland, stoic face or that invariable, clinical detachment? 

Now, in the room, De Villiers spoke, that same dry voice carrying through the room and into the hall. "I worked with Mademoiselle de Civry both directly and indirectly in the eight weeks she has been in this ward. Her treatment has had its ups and downs, though I would not say more so than any other patient..."

The first time she had met him, he had marched her from her hospital bed and sat her down at his desk, soft chairs and drapery lending to the faux-comfortable atmosphere of his office. 

"Hello, Mademoiselle de Civry," he started each time. "How are we doing this morning?" Never Magda, not here. Rambaldo had ensured that, for a price, she would be treated with the utmost respect. Those first days, she would have given her life's savings and more to have someone look upon her kindly and call her Madga. 

That first meeting, she had lowered her head and refused to speak a word. Guilt and shame and anger overcame her, like a defiant teenager called to talk to the headmaster. He'd written something down. They sat in silence for the rest of the hour. 

The nurse waiting outside patted her gently on the back as she was escorted back to her bed. "The first session is always the hardest, dear." 

Her name was Adela Toussaint. She had grey hair, neatly coiffed under her cap, and a warm, round face. Magda searched the ward for her the next morning but could not find her again, nor the next morning, nor the next. 

~~~

A week passed. Winter's grey shawl slipped over her shoulders, her eyes tired of watching the same iron-grey sky outside her small window, her mind tired of thinking the same bitter thoughts she could not escape. They allowed her to walk around now, albeit with an ever-present nurse. There was a door down the hall, the other end from the bathrooms, that led around a corner and to a long gallery of windows. 

Outside might once have been a beautiful garden, but white snow covered the scene like a shroud. There was a statue of the Madonna in white marble, with frozen rose bushes around her bare feet. Carved eyes watched the passing clouds peacefully. 

She watched the statue for a long time one afternoon, soft flakes drifting down from the pale sky. It was then she decided the snow was not a shroud but a veil, light, ethereal, and blessed. 


	3. Chapter 3

"The second session was, in my opinion, much more productive than the first. The patient was verbal and worked to articulate her feelings, although she remained guarded; this is to be expected, following the progression outlined in the 1923 thesis by Welles and Huygens..."

She closed her eyes and found herself back in the office, with its dusty curtains and walls of aging textbooks. "Hello, Mademoiselle de Civry," he'd repeated. "How are we doing this morning?"

She'd swallowed nervously. "I'm ready to try." If she'd expected a response, she got none; he simply made a mark in his notes and continued. 

"I ask you to be completely honest with me, and I will be with you. I also ask that you keep in mind that no matter how challenging or confrontational a question may seem, I have your best interests in mind." 

After a moment, she'd nodded stiffly, and it began. 

_ How was your childhood? What were your parents like? Where did you grow up? Did you have any siblings or friends your age? Have you ever hurt an animal? Were you ever accused of something you did not do? How did that make you feel? Do you think about it often? Do you often remember your dreams? Do you think about your parents? _

It was repetitive and tiring, and it had occurred to her that maybe that was the point, to attack from all angles until he hit what he was looking for. She'd felt like stopping him, shouting, _ stop, stop, stop this. Don't waste your breath. Here's the truth, and make of it what you will. _ She'd done no such thing. She just kept answering in an increasingly-monotonous voice to match his own, talking until her throat was dry and her mind numbed. 

It was possibly the longest hour of her life. They'd spent at least ten minutes discussing her elderly aunt's constitution when Magda was a young girl. Ruggero was not mentioned once, and for this she couldn't be sure if she was grateful or not. 

Adela was there again to take her back after the session. Madga smiled widely when she recognized her, surprising even herself. 

The older woman raised an eyebrow. "I take it it went better this time, Mademoiselle de Civry?"

Madga almost laughed. "Oh, it was miserable," she said. "Please, call me Magda."

"Alright, my dear," the nurse said kindly. "Madga, would you like to go for a walk?"

~~~

In the middle of January, she froze. A cold indifference to everything wrapped its fist around her. They urged her to get up, to talk, to see the gardens. She did not care to move, to talk, to see the gardens. Unseen nurses whispered with unseen doctors about progress and regression. The days progressed and regressed. Meals sat, uneaten. Eyes stared, unblinking. The aching dread grew in her stomach. She did not get up. She could not bring herself to thaw. The long hours seldom passed. 

Each morning she woke and wondered why she had done so wrong.  _ What a shame,  _ those back in Paris would have said.  _ Did you hear what happened to Magda? Magda de Civry? Yes, and she was such a pretty thing, too. So sad to hear where she is now... _

She'd curled onto her side and wished it would all just be over. 

~~~

It had been, at this point, nearly a full hour spent sitting in the dim hall outside the office door. Her shoulders ached with tension and there was a dangerous tickle in her nose. 

De Villiers was still droning on, and she could feel herself drifting off as he meandered his way through another barely-productive session. It was not until she heard Rambaldo's name that her eyes flew open, full attention suddenly on the voices beyond the door once more. 

"...Rambaldo Fernandez, who has acted as a benefactor and patron, and undoubtedly has had a significant impact on the psychosexual development of the patient. Monsieur Fernandez has paid for the stay of Mademoiselle de Civry in this institution; he also wrote her a private letter, which was delivered to her, unopened, on the twenty-seventh of January, with my permission. This letter, while the exact contents are unknown, appeared to have a positive impact on the progression of the patient..."

The letter. Oh, the letter. She'd read it only once before sticking it under her mattress, not looking at it again but letting his words slowly burn itself into her memory. _ My dearest Magda... I'm so sorry it has come to this... I'd never known you were so unhappy, my dear...  _ In the darkened hallway, her eyes began to burn with bitter tears.  _ I have paid for you stay here, because I want nothing more than for you to be the happy, gay little thing you once were, but I must tell you that I cannot serve as your patron any longer in good conscience... It's for the best, my dear. _

_ Be free, my little bird, be free.  _

Little bird. If only he knew. 

She had stuffed the letter under her bed and tried to understand.


	4. Chapter 4

"By her the end of her third waking week in the ward, at the end of January, it was determined that Mademoiselle de Civry did not pose an imminent threat to herself or others, and certain privileges were therefore granted to her in accordance with the guidelines of this establishment; these being supervised visits and reduced one-on-one supervision during rest hours... The patient responded well to these changes, enjoying the increased independence; there was no apparent recurrence of either self-destructive or suicidal tendencies, though the patient did report feelings of insomnia and restlessness. This can indicate disturbances of the subconscious, which can be further probed to help uncover aspects of the mind not yet explored..."

She'd learned, over those late nights when she could not sleep, that Adela was the night nurse on the ward for most days, and that her meetings with De Villiers happened to coincide with Adela's only afternoon shift by mere luck. 

The hours were long and unforgiving. Slipping out of her room one night like a spirit in her white gown, she'd floated down the cool tiled hall towards the bathroom, eager for only a distraction from the darkness. 

Adela had nodded in acknowledgment as she'd passed the desk, and again as she exited the bathroom. Magda lingered by the desk somewhat awkwardly, but Adela gave her a warm smile.

"Trouble sleeping again?" she asked sympathetically. 

Magda nodded. "Same as it's been. No matter what I do, it's like I can't escape my mind long enough to sleep." They spoke in voices just above a whisper, careful not to wake anyone in the nearby rooms. 

Adela rose. "Let's walk, my dear."

She came around the small desk at the nurse's station and joined Magda. Together they walked down the long, quiet hallway, footsteps echoing through the still night air. When they came to her room, Magda was surprised that Adela did not simply tell her to sleep, but instead came inside and sat down in the chair across from her. 

"Do you have any family?" Magda asked lightly, breaking the silence. Adela smiled back at her, but there was a sadness in her eyes that Magda was surprised to see.

"I live with my husband. We have a small home in town," Adela replied. She paused, looking at Magda, considering. "I had a daughter," she added quietly. "She would be just about your age now. You remind me of her a great deal, actually."

Magda looked up.

"She died just after the Great War," Adela continued. "An unseen heart condition, they said. Her fiancée was killed in action at Lorraine just days before the fighting ceased. A mother might say she died of a broken heart." 

It was all Magda could do to mouth _ I'm sorry. _ A rush of hot tears filled her tired eyes. 

"You have one thing that my daughter never got: a second chance."

She could not help herself: overcome, exhausted, she began to sob. 

Adela sat down beside her on the bed. "Shh, shh, my dear. Just let it all out." She opened her arms.

Magda cried onto the nurse's shoulder, watching the crisp linen darken from her tears, her face hot and hair messy and heart awash with emotion. 

"It's not fair, Adela, me and your daughter. I hurt people I loved-- I hurt him--" she said in a rush of words, aware but not caring that Adela probably had no idea who or what she was talking about. "If anyone deserved another chance, it isn't me, it shouldn't have been me. I should have died there, in the bathroom. I should have died," she finished, her voice raw and low. 

Adela rubbed her back. "But Magda, darling, I'm so glad you didn't. And I promise you, there are many, many other people who are so, so grateful you're still here."

It was quiet. Tears spilled down her cheeks, but these were different now. And though her eyes burned and her head ached and she gasped through sobs, she dried her tears on her sleeve and turned to Adela once more. "Thank you," she murmured. "Thank you."

Once more she expected Adela to leave, to tell her to go back to sleep before retreating to her post again, job done. To her surprise, the older woman did not move, but merely watched Magda with a sympathetic expression on her face. 

"My daughter and my future son died within days of each other. My whole world was shattered in a single week. I felt I would never recover, that that pain would be forever. And Magda, worse even, I knew I had caused it. I was in Belgium at the time and I had left my daughter alone. If I had been there with her, would things have been different? Might I still have had my beautiful little girl? I kept those feelings to myself a long time. I carried that guilt with me everywhere I went, knowing that things could have been different if only I had stayed."

The words drew a chill down her spine. If only she had stayed. 

Adela touched her arm and she stiffened. 

She turned to see the other woman looking at her seriously. "Madga," she said, "I know it might be hard to talk sometimes. I know that Dr. De Villiers is certainly not the easiest person to confide in.  **But your pain is not a burden you have to bear alone** . No matter how guilty or responsible you might feel."

Magda opened her mouth, about to argue that it was her fault, her problems, her pain. But as Adela watched her carefully, she fell into silence, knowing there was no way she could argue through those words, not now. 

Adela placed a gentle hand on her arm. "Do you want to talk to me about it?" 

Magda closed her eyes, squeezing her fists together tightly so her nails bit into her palms. She shook her head stiffly. It was too much. She could not bear it. Not now. 

In a gesture of unexpected affection, Adela placed a gentle kiss on Magda's forehead and smoothed her hair. 

"That's alright," she said. "I'll always be here if you do. Goodnight, my dear. I hope you sleep well now. I'll leave a note for Gabrielle to let you sleep in the morning; it's quite late, and you need to rest."

Magda looked up with wide eyes. "Thank you. I can't thank you enough for... oh, thank you. And, Adela, I'm so sorry about your daughter."

Adela nodded knowingly and turned off the small electric lamp by the doorway.

"Sleep well, Magda." Magda could see only her silhouette in the darkened room, but she could hear a gentle smile in the woman's words. She settled into bed, pulling the light covers over her. 

"Goodnight, Adela."

"Goodnight, my dear."

~~~

She'd turned those words over in her mind, time and time again, walking through quiet halls, watching the sparkling white Madonna, laying in bed with moonlight shining through her little window and spilling through the room, cold and pure. 

_ Your pain is not a burden you have to bear alone  _ rang through her mind while washing her face each morning, while brushing her hair, while reading old books in the hospital's spacious study. She tried to understand.

Prunier had known, hadn't he? He'd told her to find art in the pain, and art she had made, painting red on white and gold--

She couldn't have told Rambaldo, the man who had taken her back when she was at her lowest, it wouldn't have been fair, to confess that she still loved another, even if he already knew as much-- 

And Ruggero-- Ruggero was the one person she had wanted desperately, wanted more than anything, to have told. About herself, her life, and her pain and despair without him. Ruggero would have listened as she told him about Paris and Rambaldo, and her aunt and her work and her life, just as he would have listen about the panics that closed over her chest and stole her breath, about the hunger in her arms every time she so much as saw a dinner knife, about the truly horrific things she'd dreamt of doing to herself after she'd returned. 

She'd wanted to protect him, his beautiful soul still smelling of lavender like the south of France, so grown and so young in the same instant. She'd wanted to protect him from herself, and instead, his heart in her hands, his mother's blessing on his lips, she had shattered him completely. 

The afternoon nurse, Marguerite, found her curled up in her bed trembling, tears spilling down her cheeks as the emotion overwhelmed her again. Through memories blurred by panic, Magda recalled how the nurse had taken her hand, telling her to focus on her breathing until the world had vibrated back into focus. Her chest hurt so much she feared she was dying again, and the thought terrified her. The new pink lines running up and down her arms would fade; they were not deep, and no blood had been drawn. She felt sick looking down at them nonetheless. 

De Villiers had left for the afternoon, Marguerite told her, but Magda was to meet with him the first thing tomorrow. She'd offered Magda a pen and a pad of paper in the interim, and had sat with her as late afternoon sunlight poured through the windows. 

Magda wrote furiously at first, painful words spilling across paper as she fought to record the momentary clarity before it passed away once more. There was a tightness building in her chest, starting in her sternum and spreading out, wrapping around her torso, not panic anymore but instead an intensity, an urge, to talk, to share, to finally open up to someone. Her breath sped up, rapid and gasping as she struggled for control, words and emotions fighting in her head and her heart until it all spilled out at once, Ruggero and Rambaldo and her life and the lies, all the lies she had told because she was afraid and lonely and desperately in love...

Names, places, people, problems; slowly she drew together the tangled web of lies and pain, the pen cutting dark lines across the paper. Already it was fading, any realizations quickly slipping into dark frustration. Marguerite assured her this was normal, that this was okay, and encouraged her to breathe slowly and remain composed. 

The rest of the day passed in a haze; she was breathless, jumpy, inattentive. The water stung when it ran over the scratches on her arms, and she forced back tears of anger and regret as she rinsed herself clean that evening. 

Adela was on duty that night, and for the first time, Magda dreaded her visit, dreaded for Adela to see how bad things were. **But that was her fatal flaw, was it not? She could not protect those around her by burying her own pain, as much as she wanted to, as hard as she tried.**

She was waiting when Adela came, afraid as she was. When the nurse saw her, sitting timidly on the edge of her bed, she rushed over and gave Magda a warm hug. It was safe, maternal; she felt the tension in her chest release slightly. 

They sat down side-by-side. "Adela," she asked, her voice trembling. "Can I talk to you?" 

"Always," the woman murmured. "Always, my dear." 

She sniffled, wiping her red eyes with the back of her shaking hand. "It started in Paris, about a year and a half ago. I was working--" Her voice caught. Oh, God, it was hard to tell Adela these things. **Secrets were always easier to tell to strangers. Better to be scorned by a hundred strangers than to be judged by a single friend.**

Adela took her hand, nodding, listening through her teary words all running together, the truth filling up the still night air around them. 

"I was working for a man named Rambaldo. I was his mistress." The word felt unexpectedly dirty in her mouth. "It was a party, a sparkling event with fine company and finer champagne. I was where I belonged, firmly at the center of it all," she explained with a sad little laugh. "That was when I met him for the first time. His name was Ruggero, and he had never before been to Paris..." 

She told Adela everything that night, from Bullier to the Côte d'Azur and back again. She told her about Paulette, and the letter from Ruggero's mother and what she had done to him and why she left and how she had caused a good man pain beyond words. How she had returned, like the little, powerless creature she was, and had slowly become trapped in a spiral of no exits, no way out, except...

Adela listened. That was all: she had listened. 

And it was enough. 


	5. Chapter 5

Inside the room, De Villiers cleared his throat. There was a pause and the sound of a glass being placed back on a table. He continued.

"Finally," he began, "in the beginning of February, after a month of building trust and confidence with my patient, we had what I would call no small breakthrough, and the patient began to confide in me about the events leading up to her attempt on her own life. Due to the unspoken contact between physician and patient, the details of these events will remain unsaid; however, a more complete report on the Mademoiselle de Civry's history is available in her report."

"Much as I had long suspected, the downward trajectory of the patient is a result of unaddressed trauma in her recent past, causing her an immense amount of guilt and despair. Mademoiselle de Civry's perceived sense of self was one of both instigator and victim, and thusly the internal conflict began to grow..."

That was, perhaps, the hardest meeting with De Villiers she had in all her time on the ward. Fear had gripped her throat; the shadow of her panic the previous day loomed over her like a nightmare. Her stomach was tight with dread as she began to talk.

She told him everything, though vaguely at first, skirting around details as if it would somehow lessen the pain. But De Villiers was not as reticent as Adela had been, asking questions, who and where and why. Asking what Rambaldo had known, asking what had stopped her from leaving Ruggero sooner, asking why she had stayed. 

"Everything I did, I did because I loved him. Ruggero," she said plainly. "I lied because I loved him, I stayed because I loved him, and I left because I loved him. And I brought punishment against myself because I loved him, and I was too weak to be better than I was."

They talked about her life, her job as a courtesan, and how she'd felt. It had never been a source of shame until she'd met Ruggero, in fact quite the contrary. But just knowing him had made her want to do better, be better. De Villiers seemed particularly interested in those "feelings of inadequacy", as he'd put it time and time again, and their connection to Paulette and the whole charade. 

To her it seemed obvious that Ruggero was the only one who'd ever made her aspire to be more than she was. That was what being in love did to a person. Paulette was the perfect girl, the girl Ruggero deserved, not an aging prostitute born and made in the filth and glitz of Paris. 

"If he loved you as much as you say he did--" De Villers asked, and raised a hand at her reaction, wordlessly demanding to finish-- "then why could you not tell him the truth?"

To this she knew the answer without even thinking, for it was a truth she had repeated to herself time and time again in those dark days after. 

"The lie had already been told. He did not love me. He loved Paulette, and she was a dream, little more." The words were bitter and heavy in her mouth. She told him in simple language how she'd left, how she'd taken her pain and carried it with her as she fled back to Paris and Rambaldo and the life she'd know so well. 

"And how did you feel about yourself after?" he asked.

"How did I feel?" She stared at him. " _ Docteur _ , tell me, how would you feel if you destroyed the best thing you'd ever had?" He did not respond but creased his eyebrows; it was the most response she'd ever gotten out of the man. Emboldened, she continued.

"How did I feel? I hated myself. I hated what I'd done, and I hated the person I'd become. I hated the face I saw in the mirror each morning, the face of a liar, the face of a selfish, cruel woman who thought only of herself at the cost of the person she loved most. I knew exactly what I'd done to him and that I would have to live with it for the rest of my life. Every day I woke up and knew that death was better than the hell I had built for myself."

"And now?" he asked. 

She did not understand. "And now what?" 

"How do you feel about yourself now?" 

"I don't know." She faltered. "I'm more at peace with myself now than I have been in a long time. But at the same time, there's still... something inside still tells me that I don't deserve to be happy. That guilt and hatred towards myself is still there, so even as I begin to feel better I can't-- I can't--" She cried out in frustration; it was still so similar to the feelings of guilt she'd carried as Paulette, that she was still in a cage of her own making. 

"But you no longer hate yourself?"

Magda took a deep breath.

"No. I don't. I hate that I hurt someone I loved, and I know that there were things I might have done differently. But I don't think I would say I feel those same feelings of hatred and disgust that I once did, even if I still struggle to reconcile my own actions."

"I understand," he said. "Thank you very much, Mademoiselle de Civry. This has been a very enlightening conversation." And for the first time, she did not bristle at her name. It was recognition, a medal, a branding of strength. 

She walked out of the office that afternoon feeling as if she had finally won a battle, and wondering if this was what it felt like to heal.

**It is a terrifying and electric thing to feel hope once more after so long in the dark.**

~~~

Even now, even through DeVillier's dry and clinical retelling of that afternoon, the memories were strong enough to send shivers down her spine.  **To say those words,** **_I don't hate myself_ ** **, was to begin forgiving herself. They were a liberation.**

February began slowly with the realization that she had been in the hospital for a full month. Each day had seemed so long, and yet that last night in Paris was so clear in her mind that it seemed mere days ago, not weeks. 

Some days were better than others. They allowed her to walk around freely, and even to sit outside for short periods in the garden she'd so admired from afar. She flickered between drowning under the weight of her own guilt and dreaming of never waking up to sitting in the sun in the snowy garden, watching clouds of starlings swirl over distant fields over the high walls of the hospital and feeling so damn happy to be alive. In times of good, it seemed impossible to remember why she had ever wanted to die; in times of bad, it seemed unthinkable to have ever wanted to live. But slowly, slowly, it seemed that those brighter moments began to outnumber their dark counterparts, second by precious second. The world was quiet and white and the skies clear. Slowly she learned peace.

One afternoon was unexpectedly brightened by a letter, left on her desk as she returned from a walk through the hospital's corridors with Marguerite. 

It was from Prunier, her name and the name of the hospital written in his sharp, spiky cursive. She had been surprised to receive a letter, but not at all that it was from him; who else was there?

He wrote just as he talked, each word poetic and carefully chosen, his emphatic manner of speaking translated into underlined words and the occasional exclamation.  _ How  _ _ boring _ _ life in Paris had become without you! _ he wrote.  _ Lisette grows mad working for anyone but you, and I must admit that the muses have become quite unkind to me without your presence.  _

He signed the letter with love and asked her to inquire about him possibly visiting. She did, and was delighted to know that visitors were not only allowed but encouraged, now that she had started making progress with De Villiers once more. She wrote back immediately to tell him so, her heart leaping with the excitement of life in motion once more. 

They decided that he should come that Saturday, and from that moment forward she counted down every second. 

The night before, she was practically giddy with excitement, the happiest she had felt in many months. Though they were never lovers, she had always had a special connection with the poet and considered him to be a kindred spirit. He simply understood her in ways she seldom knew herself. He was the single thread that had connected her life in Paris to her life with Ruggero, and he had acted as her secret-keeper and a friend even when she felt she deserved none. 

She could hear Adela coming down the hall, speaking in low tones to each of the patients she visited. There were few other patients in her ward, leaving the halls quiet and Adela's route to her room short. 

"It looks to me," Adela said with a smile as she entered, "that you have a visitor coming tomorrow."

Magda could not contain the brilliant smile that spilled across her face. "Yes-- oh, I'm so excited. I haven't seen him since-- well, since New Year's, I guess. He was there. We didn't talk much."

Adela raised her eyebrows. "He?" she asked playfully, thankfully ignoring Magda's self-conscious tangent. "A gentleman caller for Mademoiselle Magda?" 

"Yes-- well, but not like  _ that _ ," she laughed, before turning serious. "Not him." 

Adela nodded, encouraging her to go on. 

"His name is Prunier. I think I told you about him. I met him years ago; I introduced him to Rambaldo, brought him into our circle. He was there when I met Ruggero, and he was close when I left. He is a dear friend, at times my closest confidant." 

"I think I recall," the nurse responded warmly. "Magda, I have to complete my rounds still, but there is something small I can do for you for tomorrow. Think of it as a gift to celebrate how far you've come so far. I'll be back in no more than ten minutes." 

With a fond smile she departed, returning several minutes later as she'd promised. She instructed Magda to fetch her hairbrush and to follow her, and they walked side by side down the long hall. It was a quiet night; the residential ward was still and undisturbed. For this she was grateful. 

Adela guided her behind the nurses' desk and into a small, clean powder room, smelling pleasantly of hand soap despite the lingering undercurrent of disinfectant. There were no mirrors on the ward besides the one in here; this made sense, given how many times Magda had stared into the traitorous reflection before her back in Paris and dreamed of shattering the glass with her bare fists until there was nothing left but dust. 

It was shocking now to see her own face; she'd almost forgotten what she looked like. Strong cheekbones, dark hair, deep brown eyes, yes. But to her surprise, her face had filled out since that last December evening; after months of uneaten dinners on a sorrow-filled stomach, a steady schedule of meals had added a softness to her cheeks that she had not seen in a long time. Her hair had grown out, her once-blunt bangs now long, almost stringy. Her eyes carried a wariness that she did not recognize, something a little older, a little wiser from the past weeks; yet anything was better than the broken, bitter, defeated eyes she'd seen as she'd raised her glass a final time. 

She turned away suddenly at the thought as memories overwhelmed her all at once, but Adela was there, taking her hands, speaking to her softly. "Is it too much? Magda, look at me, I'm here..." 

She took a deep breath, regaining control of herself. "It's okay, Adela, thank you. For a moment I thought... but it doesn't matter anymore."

Adela watched her carefully for a minute before stepping back. "Just a moment, now," she murmured, stepping outside to the desk. She returned seconds later with a small handbag, sturdy, plain except for hand-stitched embroidery winding around the border. She undid the clasp and opened the bag, taking out a handful of francs, a house key, and a small tin of hand ointment. Tipping the bag slightly, she fished out a handful of hairpins and a pair of tweezers. It was strangely intimate to see the contents of Adela's purse, as though all the details of her life were being brought out into the cool evening air. 

Adela extended the tweezers towards her, and it took Magda a moment before she realized Adela was offering them to her. She accepted with a quiet thank you, and Adela nodded. "I know how you girls are with the eyebrows. It's like a form of art," she said with a smile that was more than a little bittersweet. 

Magda turned towards the mirror, finding it was easier to focus on parts of her face than the whole; before she could raise the tweezers, Adela put a gentle hand on her shoulder. She turned around, afraid that she'd somehow done something wrong. But Adela simply gestured to her wooden brush, sitting forgotten on the cold white porcelain of the sink. 

She handed it to the older woman and leaned forward again, peering into the mirror before her. As she worked on her eyes, Adela brushed her hair, one side and then the other, the bristles gliding through her brown hair with ease; Magda had brushed it just that evening, and really it was not in need of brushing again, but she supposed it wasn't really about the hair at all. 

She straightened up after several minutes, satisfied enough; after it was only Prunier that she was seeing, and he'd already seen her in far worse spirits than now. Behind her, Adela set the brush down on a narrow shelf and peered over her shoulder into the mirror. With a mother's delicate hand, she pinned the long hair framing Magda's face back into a gentle wave before twisting the rest of her hair into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck. 

"Now," she murmured, "I won't be here tomorrow morning to help you. Do you see what I've done? Here, feel how I've brought the hair around..." She gently guided Magda's hand through the motion. "Tuck it in, and place a pin here... and here... Understand?"

She lowered her hands and Magda looked up, amazed at the person who stared back at her. It was nobody she had known before her time here; this was not the happy courtesan Magda, darling of Paris, nor was this Paulette at the beautiful seaside, nor was it the tormented, desperate creature who had tried to end her suffering in a bathroom on New Year's Day.  **It was all of these people without any of their pain, none of the searching or guilt or defeat. It was simply herself that stared back, unbroken.**

"It's very late, my dear, and you have a big day tomorrow." Adela reached up and removed the pins from her hair one by one, sending the brown waves tumbling back down around her shoulders. "Magda, I'll leave these hairpins with you. I trust you enough with them." In the mirror, they locked eyes, and the seriousness on the nurse's face could not be ignored. "For me, don't break that trust."

Magda nodded. Adela tipped the four silver pins into the palm of her hand, and she held them like a treasure. 


	6. Chapter 6

"Mademoiselle de Civry began to receive visitors on the sixth of February, and these visits became a regular occurrence. In practice, visits with friends and family serve to strengthen a patient's positive sense of identity; if productive, they may increase self-esteem and self-worth, though these effects are not immediate..." 

In the dark, she rolled her eyes with amusement. Leave it to De Villiers to make having her friends visit seem like a task, just another item on the long list of things to do to restore her to sanity. 

The visits were monitored, though not strictly supervised; she was guided out of her room by an attendant and taken to a visitor's room, with an attendant waiting outside the door: just far away enough that she might have some privacy, though within reach if anything should have happened. 

Prunier's first visit had been charmingly surreal. He was a dashing addition to the ward, his rich and colorful clothes forming a sharp contrast to the serene whites and tans around them; his tan suit and red tie were reminiscent of a robin in the snow. The juxtaposition between her current situation and the man sitting in front of her was nearly humorous. She would never have imagined their meeting in circumstances such as those. 

On her way out of the ward and to the visitors' room, she and an attendant had passed by a room with heavy twin doors; she'd been surprised to hear De Villiers's voice. As they'd walked, the attendant had noticed her curiosity, and had explained that that was where meetings for patient release occurred: a board of doctors sitting around a table, discussing the past to determine the future. She'd made a mental note of the fact as they'd continued down the long hallway in silence. They took a turn and the passage seemed to open up before them, late winter sunlight pouring through windows, and the man led her to a small, quiet room with two chairs, a table, a watercolor painting of a lily pond framed on the tan wall. It overlooked a small lawn with a fountain buried under the snow and a small, frozen birdbath. She settled in one of the chairs, tapping her fingers nervously, fiddling with the bandage on her arm. 

She could hear his voice down the hall, growing closer, and excitement had turned to sudden, cold fear. What if things had changed ineffably between them? What if he should blame her, or condemn her for her actions? She had always found a confidant in the poet. Perhaps it had been a mistake to ask him to come down so soon. She could not bear to lose the one friend she had, the one thin thread between here and the world. 

Outside, the one attendant spoke to the other; the door opened. He stepped though, all color and motion and smiles.

"It's so good to see you, Magda," he exclaimed. He looked at the plain room and sighed melodramatically. "I should have you some flowers! They need an artist's touch around here." 

"Thank you--" Her voice caught suddenly, and she cleared her throat. "Thank you so much for coming down. It's so nice to see a friendly face. Was the train ride long? Did you come this morning?"

"I came down last night," he said, beaming. "There's the most charming little town here. Lisette would love it; I think I'll bring her along next time, she's been absolutely dying to see you..."

His voice trailed off, and he gritted his teeth at the uncharacteristically awkward choice of words. But it was not long before they fell into their old, familiar cadence, him telling his grand stories, her always asking for more, teasing him, the perfect listener to the perfect storyteller. 

"Tell me about the town," she requested. 

"Oh, the town! A beautiful town!" he exclaimed. "Full of rustic charm like nothing you'll ever see in Paris! Oh, the sights, Magda, you wouldn't believe. Rolling meadows blanketed in glistening snow, girls in checkered aprons feeding chickens in the morning, boys and their dogs playing in the street! It's like the war never happened at all here, as though the whole town has been trapped in a glittering white globe, and I, on my evening train, was transported into this fantastical other world." 

"Tell me more," she urged. "What did you eat when you came in last night?

"Dinner last night? Superb! All the fabulous restaurateurs of Paris have nothing on the little old cook at  _ La Vieille Auberge _ ..."

He departed as the afternoon grew dim, endeavoring to catch the final train back to Paris, where Lisette waited eagerly for him and any news he brought with. He promised to return again soon and to bring her along. 

Magda was left with a smile on her face as she watched him pass through the doors of the ward and vanish from sight. Yet as the setting sun faded into the serene countryside around her, it seemed to take with it any fleeting scraps of joy she still carried, leaving her empty and quiet once more. 

~~~

Prunier kept his word; within a week she received another letter informing her of an upcoming visit, this time with Lisette, who was, in his words, "absolutely  _ living _ to see her" _. _ The news made her smile, reading his letter, hearing the exact cadence and wit of his voice in her head. She felt almost as if she should take the letter and the good news it contained, fold it up neatly with all of its love and promise, and tuck it right into her heart for safekeeping. 

She counted the days until she saw her friends again, thinking, finally, finally something to look forward to.

The morning came. They were late; this was not unusual for Prunier, the artistic type, who was prone to whimsical walks down particularly charming alleys without a pocket watch or a care for the time, and doubly more so for Lisette, who could be ready in six minutes' time when there was money on the line, but easily took ten times that when nobody was expecting her to bring tea and breakfast at nine. 

Magda sat waiting in the same little room they'd used last time, the window overlooking a courtyard. Small brown birds darted and hopped in the melting snow.

The attendant knocked on the doorframe and Magda jumped slightly, excitement getting the best of her. The man leaned his head into the room. "Mademoiselle de Civry, your visitor..." 

Visitor-- a single set of footsteps coming towards her-- her shoulders sagged a little. So she would not be seeing Lisette today after all. She looked back towards the window, ready to pout on Prunier for not bringing her with. 

Behind her, the attendant said quietly, "Monsieur Prunier," a polite introduction before he stepped back into the hall. 

Still facing away from him, Magda crossed her arms. "Not to say you're a disappointment, poet, but think your letter said you'd be bringing someone with you this time."

Uncharacteristic silence followed. Strange. Had something happened? She'd never known him to be at a loss of words; he rarely stopped talking, really. And where was that distinct smell of his cologne? 

Curiosity got the better of her; she was about to turn around when her visitor spoke.

"It's me," he said, the voice of a million good mornings and I love yous and one final plea for her to stay, a voice she'd given up hearing ever again.

She froze, unable to face him, unable to speak, unable to breathe. 

He was here. 

"Prunier wrote to me," Ruggero said quietly. "He said he'd gone to see you. He invited me to do the same. I thought... I thought you wouldn't want to see me, but he urged me to come anyways. As for assuming his name, well, you'll have to ask him. That was his idea." 

She turned stiffly, as if in a trance, and there he was: sitting before her, cool winter light spilling through the large window and across his handsome, broad face. Dressed well, as always. His hair had grown longer in the months since she'd seen him last. She couldn't bear to look him in the eye. 

He said her name, her real name,  _ Magda _ , like a raindrop, like a broken feather, like a gold coin. A forbidden word on his lips. The emotion behind his words settled like a heavy shawl around her shoulders. She felt as if they should cry together, like she should have knelt and begged him for forgiveness, and he should have taken her in his arms and carried her far, far away from all of this. 

They did not cry, or if he did, she could not see. But he sat by her side, holding her hand even over the wrappings that still covered her tender skin, and this felt like an acceptance. 

That was the first day. 

~~~

She received a letter three days after, postmarked at the local train station and dated the sixteenth of February, the day of Ruggero's visit. It was polite, friendly, genuine, just as he was the first time they'd met. In lines of neat script he wrote how happy he was to see her, even under the circumstances, and how he looked forward to seeing her again. The closing was kind but not overly affectionate, and his name, Ruggero, was written just how it had appeared on the table at Bullier. In his words she found a kind of quiet solace, bittersweetness mixing with fragile hope. 

Prunier, too, had sent her another letter, this time half-apologizing for his "little trick", as he called it.  _ Think of it as my penance for my role in this Grecian drama, _ he wrote.  _ I encouraged you to leave him, and now I will make amends by bringing you back together. _ He signed the letter and promised to bring Lisette for real on his next visit.

Her meeting that week with De Villiers seemed to drag on; if only the minutes would pass faster until she could be reunited with her friends once more. Their visits were a promise, proof incarnate that there were still people in the world who did not hate her, even after all she'd done. 

Though her mind wandered throughout the session, one remark by the doctor had caught her attention. Just as she was beginning to feel drowsiness slip over her-- that man's voice could put the devil himself to rest, for sure-- De Villers had asked her to stand up. She'd stumbled to her feet, wondering if she was about to be lectured or if he simply wanted to wake her up a little. His eyes swept over her standing form curiously, through there was no leer, no lust, just the appraising, clinical gaze of a doctor. 

After a moment, he thanked her and asked her to sit back down. She did, watching him with bewilderment. 

"Your posture, Mademoiselle," he said. "It is very good." 

She stared. "Thank you, Docteur," she replied, her voice trailing into a question. 

"How did you come to acquire such balanced, firm posture? Many young people nowadays do not pay mind to it." 

Her brow creased with more confusion. Of his many tangents about her past, this had to be the oddest one. "I went to finishing school for about two years in Lyon," she said. "In addition to academics, they taught us many things they deemed useful for young ladies of the time, including the proper forms of sitting, standing, walking and the like."

De Villiers nodded sagely, as if this was exactly the answer he'd been hoping to hear. "And how did they teach you that?"

"Practice," she said with a slight shrug. "Working to be aware of the way we carried ourselves. Paying attention to the slump of a shoulder, the dip of a chin, the curve of a neck. One of the teachers instructed us to walk as though a string was pulling our heads up to heaven," she added with a little smile. "It was not easy at first. I grew up first in the countryside, and then with my elderly aunt, as I've told you. Nobody before had ever told me to be conscious of the shuffle of my steps, nor the way my shoulders dropped when I sat." 

"But you learned to pay attention, to be conscious of these things, and to correct yourself on them, yes?" 

She nodded. 

"And," he continued, "soon your body learned to do them the correct way, so that it was more natural to sit correctly than to huddle, or to stand straight rather than slouch?" 

She nodded again. 

He sat back in his chair. "Your mind is of the same essence. Just as one must focus to eliminate the habits of bad posture, you must also focus on your inner self. Your time with me is only half the treatment, Mademoiselle. Just as you, as a young woman, learned to self-correct your unbecoming posture, you must now learn how to control your own thoughts. Your melancholy tells you things that are alluring, tempting, and ultimately untrue. Your decline of self-perception is revealed in your belief of your own blame, inferiority, and unworthiness. The first step is to recognize the thoughts that have brought you to this place; thoughts of guilt, hatred towards yourself, even thoughts of self mutilation or suicide. Recognize these feelings as you would recognize a moment of poor posture. That is the first step. Once you recognize these feelings, you can realize their falsity and address the true emotion behind them. This we will come to later. First, you must be simply aware." 

She nodded, and sat up a little straighter in her chair. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *warning for discussion of past assault and discussion of a suicide attempt*

Like a ship on the clear sea, February seemed to sail smoothly forward. Each day she felt more herself; each session with De Villiers could be described as productive, if not relentlessly boring. She had remarked to Adela one evening how strange and perilous it was to be so okay once more: things were better, but the fear of slipping into darkness again was a new and unfamiliar worry to her. 

There was another fear, like a bruise upon her soul, tender and wounded. Ruggero had visited once, but they had barely talked, and had not spoken of all that had occurred between them. Had he simply wanted closure? To look upon the face that had hurt him most and prove that he had survived?

His letter to her had been kind, but unspecific. Unlike Rambaldo's letter, currently still crunched up beneath her mattress, she'd read Ruggero’s words time and time again, tracing his name as if she could feel the hand that wrote it. He'd said he wanted to see her again, but had made no promises; she could only wait and see. Every morning as they brought mail to the rooms she would wait, trapped between longing and despair, only to be bitterly disappointed once more when no word came. 

Until, one afternoon in the middle of the month, it did: a letter from Paris bearing her name in his smooth, neat handwriting. She opened it with trembling hands to find a short letter, barely a paragraph.  _ Magda, _ he wrote,  _ I hope you are well. I would like to make another visit to you soon. You and I both know that we need to talk.  _

_ I await your reply-- _

_ Ruggero. _

Her greatest wish had become a curse; finally, finally she would get what was so long coming for her.

A date was arranged; she wrote back with half hope and half dread, overjoyed to even see him once more, and just as fearful of the things he might say. In the garden, she looked to the white Madonna but found no answers, no solace; only a space for her racing thoughts to echo even louder. 

It was a sleepless night before he came. In the early morning light she dressed, washed herself, pulled her hair back as Adela had taught her. She was too nervous to eat, though Gabrielle insisted she swallow a few bites of eggs and toast. And then she waited, waited as the morning crept by before she was whisked down the hall and to that familiar little room. 

Her first thought as he entered the room with her was how tired he looked, as if she had not been the only one awake for the long hours. In the past they might have found comfort in each other, but this was the life she had brought upon the both of them. He sat. There was a seriousness in his face, in the stiffness of his shoulders, that had not been there during his last visit. Or had she simply failed to notice, too self-absorbed in her own hopes and fears? 

They stared at each other, unspeaking, long enough that she began to grow afraid. Why had he come? 

With a sigh, he spoke. _ Paulette  _ seemed to linger on his lips, as if he too was trapped between dreams and reality. "Magda," he said, and the reluctance in his voice sent chills down her arms. "Today, I want you to tell me the truth." 

Guilt and apprehension swirled in her stomach like a disease. "Anything you ask," she whispered.

"Start from the beginning," he said. "Your life. Tell me about yourself, Magda, the real you." 

She took a moment to collect herself before she spoke, her voice quiet, reflective. Suddenly the past was not so painful when she was certain he did not love her anymore; what was once a knife over her heart was now only distant history.

"I was born in the countryside outside of Saint-Florentin,” she stated. “When I was seven my parents died of influenza, and I was sent to live with an elderly relation, an aunt of my father's. She was kind but distant; I was an energetic and often unruly child, and she simply did not know how to handle me. I was sent from school to school; there was enough money for my education, but little else, and my aunt and I lived a very frugal life together. She had a home in the outskirts of Paris, and I grew up in the shadow of the city. To her it was a place of moral corruption, of crime and lust and temptation, so naturally I spent many nights dreaming of the adventures I'd have there when I was free.

"I was almost sixteen the first time I ran away; I'd been climbing out through my bedroom window for years at that point, but that was the first time I meant to never go back. I had no plan, no money, nowhere to stay... I lasted a single night before I went back home. Got twenty lashes on each hand for that, it was the maddest I'd ever seen her."

She flexed her hands ruefully at the stinging memory. His hand moved as if to cover hers, but he did not. 

"It was about two years later when I finally moved out of there, me and a few schoolmates of mine. We found an apartment in the city, a beautiful place with a balcony looking out over a park with a pond. Sometimes you'd see ivory swans dive down from the skies and land on the water. And oh, to be there! Those were beautiful days of dreams. But dreams do not last.

"The money ran out more quickly than we'd thought. The other girls spoke in whispers of a way to make quick money, easy money. Bianca was the first to jump, and for a while it was good; she had the newest dresses, the nicest shoes, every bag and jewel and whimsy that she wanted. We were all jealous! And it was so easy at first, to be a working girl. Dinners at fancy hotels, shopping trips at a moment's notice, anything I wanted at my request. But the demands in return grew and grew, and by that time we were in too deep to say no. And it became so easy to justify doing things I could never have believed I'd do, to see them only as a small cost to have the life I'd always dreamt of. 

"Things went downhill so fast I had no idea what had happened. How quickly you fall from desire in the eyes of others! Élisabeth became addicted to morphine; Bianca, opium. Josette was unwed and with a child. There were many hungry nights, and some frightening moments," she murmured. "Men could be rough, even violent. There were times I feared for my life. Times I wished I had said no, times I wished I had never escaped the safety of my aunt's home."

She did not look him in the eye, but shivered slightly despite herself, remembering anger, relentlessness, and rough hands touching her even as she pushed away.

"You don't have to say anymore if you don't want to," he remarked quietly. "I can't imagine how hard this must be."

She gave a little shrug. "It's okay," she murmured. "I survived, and I made my way up until I was no longer scorned but envied, even admired. That was a life I was content with, a life I intended to lead for as long as I could. The rest, of course, you know." 

It seemed so simple to say it like that, as if it hadn't been years of tangled, desperate choices that had led her to the moment they'd met.

"You were there that night, weren't you," he said, and it was not a question but a grim acceptance of the truth. "At Rambaldo's home, my first night in Paris. You were there before I went to Bullier." 

She nodded stiffly. 

"And Rambaldo-- my _ father's friend--  _ he was your..." 

"Patron," Magda answered, the word suddenly sour on her tongue. "And I... his mistress." 

"Did you love him?" 

The earnestness of the question nearly made her smile despite herself. Such a romantic notion. She shook her head. "We had an agreement. I respected that agreement. I grew to respect him. I might even have cared for him once. But I never loved him." She put the weight of her heart into those five words. 

"That night," Ruggero repeated, "you didn't say anything about it to me at Bullier. You pretended to be someone else. You pretended not to know me. Why?" 

"I don't know," she said, her face flushing with shame. "It wasn't because of you. I'd blame it on Prunier somehow for putting the silly idea into mind, but it's really no fault but my own. Haven't you ever wanted to just be somebody else for a night?" 

His face was stony, serious. She dropped her eyes. "I hadn't planned on meeting you there. That much is true. And everything I said, everything I ever felt towards you was the truth, that night and after. It just got mixed up in the lies. I didn't want you to know who I was, what I did, where I came from. Even as I said I loved you, I knew what I was doing was wrong. I just couldn't stop myself from falling for you.  **You were all of my dreams and more, everything I'd ever needed, and the fear of losing you was enough to silence me for a while.** " 

"When were you going to tell me the truth, Magda? Were you ever going to?" 

She took a breath, and it came out more like a sob. "I knew I had to. I was going to. But I loved you so much, and I knew what would happen when I did, so I just kept telling myself tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. I wanted as long as I could have with you. It was when your mother wrote that I realized it had gone too far; you spoke so highly of me to her, and she adored the person you thought I was, and all the while I was burning myself from the inside out trying to keep my entire life a secret from you. I knew I couldn't hurt you like that any longer. I couldn't do it any longer. I had to leave. Like a swallow, flying home to its nest, I went back to where I knew I belonged..." she murmured. 

"You didn't even give me a  _ reason,"  _ he said. "People asked about you and I had no answers, no stories, nothing but confusion and pain and unanswered questions. Some began to whisper that you were carrying a child, that you were carrying  _ my  _ child, and I didn't know where you were or what had happened. I wrote to all your friends in Paris and received no response. Months went by and I heard nothing, and then word reached me in January that you'd been in an accident, that you were here. Even then I didn't know what had actually happened. Prunier was the one who finally told me."

All of this she knew, yet each word was like a knife to her heart nonetheless. 

"We could have worked through it together," he added quietly. "Anything that you could have told me, I would have listened and tried to understand. I loved you. But when you left there was nothing I could do." His voice was tired, weary. So unlike the vibrant, beautiful soul he'd been before. 

A twinge of resentment ached in her chest; how easy it was for him to say that he would have loved Magda just as much as he had Paulette. Words were easy when he didn't love either of her anymore. She pushed it down. Her fault, her fault. She couldn't blame him. 

"I'm sorry," she said. What more was there to say than that? "Ruggero, I'm so sorry." She tilted her head down, unsure if she should continue. "You know why I'm here." Her voice broke into silence.

He looked at her, his face unreadable. "Magda, sometimes I feel like I don't know you at all--"

Her heart dropped.

"--but sometimes I know you so well I swear I can hear you think," he finished. 

She looked up, her pulse suddenly racing. 

"Magda, you can stop punishing yourself. I forgive you." 

They were the words she'd dreamt impossible dreams of for months,  **a sudden and overwhelming absolution** . She began to cry, messy, gasping tears, nearly doubling over as he talked. 

"I don't know if that's what you need to hear, because I think you're more angry with yourself than I could ever be.  **But I want you to know that I could never hate you, in this life or any other,** and I know that you were faced with an impossible choice."

She sobbed. 

Trembling, gasping, tears rolling down her cheeks and tasting of salt in her mouth, unable to breathe under the crushing weight of his forgiveness, the last shards of ice seemed to melt away from her heart. He did not hate her, he forgave her, and maybe now she could live. 

He offered her a handkerchief from a pocket inside his suit, and she took it, embarrassed. It was warm and smelled of him, safe, clean, familiar. She gingerly wiped her cheeks, feeling her flushed face and as she dried the tears that still clung to her eyelashes. 

"I don't know what to say," she said finally, her voice still heavy with tears. "Thank you... thank you. Thank you," she whispered. The scars on her arm were beating like a pulse. She wiped her cheeks a final time before gently folding the cloth and placing it on the table next to her. Was that it? Had he come all this way from Paris to forgive her?

She cleared her throat, trying to breathe. "You came all the way down from Paris to see me." It was a statement, and an unasked question.

He looked up. "I did." 

"You didn't have to do that. Certainly not twice." She did not want to sound like she was begging for him. All she wanted was one answer. 

"I wanted to. I worried about you. And I had questions I needed to know the answers to." He looked out the window. "But mostly I just wanted to see you once more." 

The question slipped through her lips. "Why?" 

He looked away. "I missed you," he said with more emotion than she'd expected. "You were my life for nearly a year. I was ready to make you a part of my family, marry you, maybe start a family of our own, and that all came crashing down in a single afternoon. I was lost without Paulette." Her heart skipped a beat. "Without you," he added hesitantly. 

"I wanted to meet you," he continued, and she could see tears welling in his eyes. "I wanted to know if I had fallen in love with a ghost, or if the woman I loved was still here, just maybe... a little different than before. A different name I could learn to love. A different past I could even learn to love. But a whole different person? I wasn't sure if I could love Magda as I had loved Paulette."

It was silent. Something ached terribly deep inside her. 

"Magda," he asked, and his voice was so soft, so gentle. "Will you tell me what happened? How did you end up here? I know it's impolite to ask, but I want to hear it from you, not the gossip on the streets of Paris. Whatever it was, I won't tell a soul. "

She froze, her cheeks hot with shame and surprise; sudden fear wrapped around her stomach. Her chest began to heave, the breaths shallow and fast. He reached his hand across to her and she took it, squeezed it back with both hands, aware that she was probably hurting him but she couldn't stop; to her surprise, he held her just as tightly. After a moment the pressure in her chest subsided. She relaxed her grip. He kept his hand where it was, stroking her thumb comfortingly. He looked down; it was only after a moment that she realized he was looking not at their hands, but the white material wrapped snugly around her forearm. 

"On New Year's... he had a party. I looked for you, half-hoping, half-terrified you'd be there. You weren't. That seemed like a reason. But if you had been there, that would have been a reason too.  **I was looking for a reason to end my life, and anything was a sign."**

She closed her eyes, unable to face him. "I went to the bathroom-- after everyone left. I had a glass of champagne. I drank it-- shattered it--" Without thinking, she felt herself pantomime the action, smashing that sparking glass on the corner of the vanity.

"I took a piece of glass-- it cut my hand--" There were tiny scars on her fingertips now, another curving down her palm-- "And I took it and I-- I--" 

She broke off with a gasp. She could not bring herself to say the words. She gestured harshly over her forearm, hoping he would understand. "There was so much blood-- and how it hurt. I was scared-- and I just kept telling myself I deserved it, deserved it, deserved it--" 

She could hear his breathing, emotional, weighted. She wished for a moment she hadn't told him anything. 

"The last thing I remember was the cool tile of the floor against my face, and the warm blood. And I remember praying that Lisette wouldn't be the one to find me in the morning." She opened her eyes. "I woke up here a week later." 

He looked shocked. Guilt dizzied her head, even as waves of euphoria sent her reeling with the sheer relief of finally, finally having told him everything. There were no more secrets. It was all over now. 

"I'm so sorry," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. "Oh, Magda." 

She sighed. "It's not your fault," she replied wearily. "It was never your fault, Ruggero. Only mine. All of this was my pain." 

He looked at her intently, his eyes bright with tears. "If I knew someone I loved was in pain, no matter whose fault it was, the only thing on my mind would be to help them any way I could. If I had any idea-- I knew you had your secrets, but I didn't care. I was determined to love you no matter what. If only I had known how awful it was for you..." He trailed off. A new idea seemed to occur to him, and he looked at her again. "When you were with me, did you--?"

She pulled her arms back, folding tighter into herself. "Hurt myself? Not physically. But lying to you was torture to me, and every day I forced myself to, because I was too afraid to lose you. It only got this bad--" she gestured at her arm-- "when I returned to Paris." 

"I wish I had known. I wish there was anything I could have done to help you. It might have saved us both a lot of pain." 

She smiled at him sadly. "I know. I wished more than anything that there was some way I could have told you. There were so many things I wished I could have told you."

He leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. "You're telling me now. We can start here."


	8. Chapter 8

Compared to the shattering intensity and release of Ruggero's visit, seeing Lisette and Prunier was practically a walk in the park when they visited a few days later. Again she was brought to the visitor's room, and again she waited for her friends. She could hear their chattering voices down the hall, and she smiled at Lisette's quick tongue and Prunier's playful retorts. 

Prunier wore a deep grey suit with a frankly shocking polka-dotted red and pink bow tie; Lisette, a pretty blue dress with printed yellow flowers under her winter coat. In the doorway, she dumped the long coat unceremoniously into Prunier's hands and dashed over to greet Magda. 

"Mademoiselle!" she cried, her brown curls bouncing around her cheeks. flushed from the cold afternoon. Magda rose, beaming. They embraced, exchanging friendly kisses on each cheek, and Prunier kissed her hand with a playful half-bow. 

"I've missed you both," Magda said warmly. The trio sat down. "How have you been?" 

Lisette and Prunier exchanged a mischievous smile. "Good," Prunier responded. "You know, I didn't tell you last time, but I've been published. A literary magazine has offered me money for my work on a monthly basis." 

"Congratulations! That's wonderful."

He nodded proudly, and squeezed Lisette's hand with his own. Again that mischievous look between them! Magda had watched fondly as their relationship had grown from secretive midnight meetings to where they were now. These were her friends; she knew them well. "But there's more, isn't there," she added, flicking her gaze between the two of them. Prunier raised his eyebrows, and Lisette began to blush. 

"Tell me..." she urged.

It was Lisette who broke first, her composure falling into excited, girlish giggles. "Oh, your eyes are so intense! I feel like I have no secrets from you," she laughed. 

Magda snapped her fingers. "I knew it!" She stared Lisette down. "Lisette, are you--"

"No!" the girl cried. Prunier began to laugh. "No, thank God, my mother would kill me. But--" She yanked her hand out of his grasp and held it out in front of her, beaming. On her third finger was a beautiful ring, silver with a glittering diamond set in the center. 

"Oh!" Magda exclaimed. "Oh, Lisette! It's beautiful."

They cooed over the ring, Lisette proudly fluttering her fingers so the afternoon light caught the ring just-so, sending rainbow sparkles dancing off the clear stone. Prunier bounced between shaking his head with mock scorn and beaming with excitement as the women discussed wedding plans. A wedding under the cherry trees, Lisette said, champagne and music and pink petals falling through the air like angels themselves. All of their friends would be there. A spring wedding, to celebrate love and the thaw of winter. 

For the honeymoon Prunier had asked for the name of the place she and Ruggero had stayed on the Côte d'Azur. Her breath had caught slightly at the mention, but she looked up and saw he was only teasing. She wrote it down nonetheless when he offered her a slip of paper; it was a beautiful place, even if she would never return herself. Even if painful memories lingered there, it did not mean others should not be happy too. 

The afternoon passed quickly but sweetly; it was so delightful to be in the presence of old friends once more. Before she knew it the attendant was tapping on the door, telling the trio that visiting hours were nearly over for the day. 

"You'll be at the wedding, then, right?" Lisette asked as she and Prunier grabbed their coats to leave. 

Magda nodded in an instant but froze, looking not at the couple but out the window, remembering the walls around her that separated her from the world beyond. She could not stay here forever; a cage could be safer than the wild, but it was undoubtedly still a cage. The hospital was a place of safety and healing, but the world moved on quickly without her. Soon she might never be able to join back in. Would they set her free, or keep her forever?

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Prunier put a hand on Lisette's shoulder as, presumably, the same thoughts occurred to him. Lisette looked slightly embarrassed as realization hit her, her cheeks pink and eyes downcast, the poor thing. 

"Lisette," Magda said, and Lisette looked up. "It would be my honor to be at your wedding. Even if it means I have to climb out a window in the middle of the night and steal a horse." 

They laughed and embraced, exchanging kisses on cheeks, and Magda watched fondly as the pair walked hand-in-hand down the long hallway. 

~~~

Later that week, another meeting with De Villiers, normal until the very end; then was a moment she would hold in her mind forever. They'd finished their session as usual; he had stood up to show her to the door. 

"I must admit," the doctor said. "I have been impressed with your resolve and dedication these past few sessions."

Her cheeks grew warm at the unlikely praise. "Thank you, Docteur. It means a lot to hear you say that." They stopped just before the door. "Sometimes it feels like I haven't made much progress at all, because, you know, day-to-day things don't seem to change that much. It can be hard to find the strength to keep moving forward when I can't see how far I've come, or how far I have yet to go." 

He nodded. "You are a very strong woman, Mademoiselle. Do not forget that. The strength you used to protect those you love? And that same strength it took to leave, because you believed it was the right thing to do? Use that strength now on yourself. Continue to focus on your healing." 

"I will," she replied softly. She turned to leave. 

"One more thing, Mademoiselle," De Villiers added. "You should know that the board of doctors here will review your progress next Wednesday. The third of March, I believe." 

She gasped. "You mean I might be released as soon as next week?" 

"It is a possibility; we may also decide it is best for you to remain admitted. We will decide whatever is in your best interests." 

She scanned his face, looking for any clues, but it was as opaque as ever. He opened the door. "That is all, Mademoiselle de Civry. I will see you next week." 

That was all? She stepped into the hall, her mind reeling as he shut the door behind her. 

Adela had looked at her with concern. "Magda?" she asked, careful not to let her voice carry into De Villers's office. "Are you alright, my dear?"

"They might release me next week," she whispered. She could scarcely believe the words on her own lips. "Adela, they're going to release me..." 

So she had survived after all. 


	9. Chapter 9

That same afternoon she wrote quickly to Ruggero, asking to see him once more. He obliged, and the date was set. The afternoon was rainy and cool, as if winter had already begun to cede to spring, the sky heavy and bluegreen and the air moist as she waited for him. 

Footsteps down the hall; the door opened. She stood to greet him, and he kissed her cheeks softly, the warm nearness of him lingering even as they sat back down. 

"Thank you so much for coming today," she said. "You don't know how much I look forward to seeing you." 

He smiled warmly. "It's my pleasure," he said. "I was going back to Paris after visiting my mother in Montauban. Coming to see you was a welcome detour. I'm still not too fond of life in the city."

She nodded. "Ruggero," she started, suddenly nervous. "You know I've been here for seven weeks. It's been almost two months." 

He paused, considering, before he nodded. She took a deep breath. "They're going to decide if I'm ready to be discharged next week," she said in a sudden rush of words. "Next Wednesday." 

He looked momentarily surprised before his face broke into a wide smile. "That's wonderful news, Magda! Congratulations." When she did not respond, he put a gentle hand on her arm. "That's good, right?" 

She frowned. "I think so. I mean, yes, it is. But I'm not sure where that leaves me. Rambaldo has, quite rightfully, ended our professional relationship." 

"So... what will you do? Will you go back to Paris? Back to your old life again?"

"I don't know. Paris, maybe." She shook her head. "But to the past? I could never again. Even when I returned nothing was the same, as though I had taken some unseen fork in the road when I left with you. Different friends, different conversations: it was like being an outsider in a place I had once known better than my own history. I knew my place there, once, just as I knew my place by your side at the sea. Now I'm not sure where I belong. Prunier and Lisette have offered me a couch to sleep on until I get something sorted out, get a little apartment. You know." 

He watched her, his face inscrutable. She tossed her head, just a hint of pride rising up on her. "I supported myself without help for many years, and I will find a way to do so again." 

A small smile tugged at his lips. "I don't doubt that for a second, Magda." 

"Maybe I'll become an investor," she mused. "Try my luck in the market. That's how you boys all do it, is it not? Play your fortunes in the stock exchange?" 

"I believe," he said with a laugh, "that you would be a most formidable investor. My solicitor tells me now is quite a time to start. The economy's better than it's been in years. I paid the debts on our home by the sea, paid off my apartment in Paris. Started paying back my mother." He gave her another wry smile. "I'm sure he could set you up with something."

Her mind was no longer on finances.  _ Our home by the sea _ , he'd said. How she had loved that little home by the sea, those rooms they called their own. Even through the pain of her secrets, her happiest memories had been there, by his side. But it was one little word that set her mind ablaze with precious possibility:  _ ours _ . There was a hope about that word, something fragile and beautiful to be treasured like a pearl in her heart. Maybe it had been a slip of the tongue, she cautioned herself. Perhaps they were both dreaming of ghosts. She had never dared to dream of going back there, never dared to hope for that life again. 

But how she'd loved that little home by the sea. 

Ruggero was looking at her curiously, and she blushed as she realized she'd grown quiet. Rain pattered softly against the windows, and she could almost believe it was mist from the distant sea. 

"What is it?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Just thinking of happy memories. They're no longer so bittersweet now that you're here."

They sat in comfortable silence, the rush of the wind in the trees like a memory of waves upon a familiar coast. 

"How is your mother?" she asked after a moment. "You said you visited her..." 

He nodded. "She's as well as can be. She misses me, of course. She asked about you, you know. Her memory isn't what it used to be. She kept asking me about 'that pretty young girl from the city that I've been seeing,'" he said with a wry smile. 

She laughed, even as something ached deep within her. "I see what you mean about her memory," she joked. "I'm neither pretty nor young, and as for the last two, I'd say it's a little more complicated than that." 

He pursed his lips. "I'd have to disagree that you are neither pretty nor young..." 

"Oh, you," she laughed, shushing him. He squeezed her hand, but his face grew serious. 

"My mother grows older," he said, "and eventually she will retake her place at my father's side. All she wants now in life is to see me happy."

He looked at her, her hand still in his, and she suddenly felt lightheaded. His eyes caught hers. "You are still a part of that picture, as my love, my wife, the mother of my children, the better half of my soul," he told her.

She dropped her gaze. Oh, Ruggero. Still he could not see how broken and cruel she was. 

"You deserve better than this, Ruggero," she said with sudden bitterness, pulling her hand away sharply and gesturing at the hospital around them and then herself. "You're still young. You'll find another girl, a real woman with her whole life in front of her and no past to hide. A perfect wife to you, a perfect mother to your children, a perfect daughter to your mother. I love you for staying, but this cannot go on forever."

"I know only this: I would rather have a happy marriage than a perfect one, but I cannot have either without you. Why can you not be both? A lover, and a wife? The swallow has nests both in Paris and to the south, does it not? I would be proud to have you as my wife. Not Paulette, nor anyone else. You, Magda."

"Then you are even more of a fool than I am," she snapped. "What about your family, your mother, your faith? You would bring a-- a  _ whore  _ into your family's home?" 

He looked back at her, stung, and how she wished she could have taken those words back. She sat up straighter, tried to breathe, tried to do as she had been taught. 

"Don't talk like that. I'm here for  _ you _ ," he said. "Who are you still fighting against, Magda? Is it truly impossible for you to believe I still love you?"

Those words hung in the air, and for a moment she could only stare at him. Deep within her there was feeling like ten thousand fragments of sparkling glass flying backwards through the air and forming a whole once more; an un-shattering, a stitching of what once was torn and tattered, her very heart and soul. 

"Even after all this? Even after everything I said, everything I've done?" she asked numbly. "I believe you want to love me, although I can't understand why. But-- I cannot--"

"You are not unworthy of love just because you made a mistake, my light. Your past is just that: the past. My family would not be whole without you; my mother was ready to accept you as her daughter. You ask about my faith; it is my religion to forgive and reconcile. I would much rather live with an honest woman than a troubled dream."

She did not respond, the words echoing hollowly in her mind. 

His face darkened as he continued. "When I first loved you, you were tormented by the secrets you held, all those things you never told me. Now you are just as tortured: the name has changed, but you haven't, Magda. I love you, but I can't make you love yourself." 

Her breath hitched. "I'm trying," she said, and it came as a plea. "I'm here. I'm trying. Even though I know you've forgiven me, something inside still struggles to let me forgive myself, no matter how hard I try.  **I hated myself** **_so much_ ** **for what I'd done to you, for a long time. The ways I hurt myself are so much deeper than flesh wounds, and it takes a long time to heal from that,"** she cried, unconsciously bringing her arms to her chest, her hand covering the scars on her wrist in protection. “Even when I'm released, it's not as if everything will suddenly be okay again, as much as we both wish it to be true. You can't... love me back to happiness, because I might just keep destroying it over and over again. You can't save me, Ruggero. I have to do it myself."

"Not by yourself. Not alone," he said softly. She opened her mouth to correct him, but he raised his hand for her to listen. "I know what you mean, Magda. I can't cure what hurts you most. But that doesn't mean you will ever have to do anything  _ alone.  _ I will always be here for you, just as I know you would do the same for me."

A tear traced down her cheek, and he delicately brushed it away. "Are you going to be okay?" he asked. "I didn't mean to upset you." 

She nodded. "I love you. I love you so much," she whispered. "Will you be alright?" she added. "This can't be easy for you. All of these uncertainties and doubts and maybes." 

"I'll be alright," he said with a smile. "It would be easier if you didn't always fight me so hard when I try to tell you I love you, though." 

They laughed until the tears sliding down her cheeks were from happiness and not grief, and then they laughed some more.


	10. Chapter 10

It was nearing the end. De Villiers had just discussed their most recent meeting. Soon she would know. 

She'd said her goodbyes to Adela last night, had waited up until the night nurse made rounds to her room. Although Adela had other patients to see, she sat with Magda for some time. 

The conversation was a blur in her mind; she half-wished she'd written it down somewhere just to remember all of Adela's final words to her. 

_I'll miss you,_ she'd said. _And_ _I shouldn't say it, but you were my favorite here..._

_ You have spirit, Magda, a strong spirit and a stronger will. Use that to your advantage... And don't forget what I told you... Sharing what hurts you is the first step of healing...  _

The details slipped through her fingers with frustrating sleekness; the more desperately she tried to remember every word, every moment, the more it seemed to fade from her mind. But she could never forget those kind eyes, the neat grey hair under a nurse's cap, the quiet shuffle of footsteps that she knew so well outside her door. At the bottom of her bag were four silver hairpins, guarded like the treasure they were, even if only to her. 

She'd wanted more than anything to ask Adela for an address, anything to keep in touch with the woman who'd kept her alive and sane through sleeplessness and nightmares, through heartbreak and reconciliation, through pain and healing and everything in between. But it felt wrong to give an address that was not her own, since she still planned on returning to the city, and Adela had not offered hers. Magda was forced to watch that hope fade quietly into the distance with an ache in her heart.

If only they could have talked through the long night that followed! But Adela had excused herself after sitting with her for some time, regretfully murmuring that she had other patients to see. Magda had gotten up, and they had embraced not as nurse and patient, but as family. 

"Take care of yourself, Magda. If I don't see you again after tonight, know that I'll be thinking of you." She drew Magda's head down to her own and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Sleep well, my dear."

She'd tried to think of anything better to say than  _ thank you _ and _ I'll miss you _ and  _ I wouldn't be here without you _ , but urgency had gotten the better of her and could only watch mutely as Adela turned off the light and retreated down the dim hall. Magda hoped more than anything that she understood anyways. 

And then, after a few sleepless hours Marguerite knocked lightly on her door. Magda had packed her only bag with fastidious neatness, hoping to distract her shaking, nervous hands from the looming event of that afternoon. After a small lunch she'd asked to see the gardens, and they had obliged her; she slipped away, heading through an unlocked door, wandering through unfamiliar corridors until she found the distinct double doors she'd passed each time a visitor had come. 

She pressed her ear to those doors now, waiting to hear any hint of the verdict. They were discussing the results of her medical exam now; Gabrielle, the nurse who had been there when it was done, had already assured her that her health was as clean as could be. 

The first doctor spoke, asking for any closing remarks; there was a murmuring of voices, and she held her breath as De Villiers started to talk once more. 

"My impression of Mademoiselle de Civry, then, is as follows," he began. She closed her eyes. "I believe her to be an intelligent and rational woman who is immensely burdened by melancholy and guilt, leading to her attempted suicide eight weeks ago. As her psychotherapist, I have guided her in identifying the circumstances leading up to the trauma and its effect on her psyche. 

“However, no matter how exceptional her progress in these past few weeks, there is still a journey ahead of us in fully understanding and healing the mind of Mademoiselle de Civry. While she is likely no longer a threat to herself or others, as her doctor, I believe it would be remiss of me to allow her to be discharged. I therefore recommend that the patient remain admitted to continue her treatment..."

_ Remain admitted. _

A betrayal. Her ears rang. She heard nothing else until the group of doctors called a recess, to reconvene in twenty minutes. Then they would decide her fate. 

Summoning all her will, she slipped out of the hallway and hastened down the twisting labyrinth of hospital corridors back to the ward and room she'd come to know so well. Passing the statue in the garden, she paused as if to say goodbye, taking in the white Madonna for a final time. She had never been one to pray, but even so, somewhere in her mind a quiet prayer echoed. 

The long hallway was empty, spare for a passing orderly who smiled politely as Magda entered her room. She collapsed in the chair, eyeing the small wardrobe across the room where her bag sat.

Soon they would come get her, and tell her they had decided against De Villiers's statement, that that old fool knew nothing and that she was ready for discharge. Soon she would be free. Soon-- soon--

The twenty minutes passed arduously slowly. It was a beautiful afternoon. She could not wait to step out into the late winter sunshine, to feel the heady mix of freedom and fresh air upon her face. 

Twenty-five minutes. Thirty. It would be any moment now. Thirty-five.

Footsteps down the hall, coming closer. Stopping just outside her room. 

Even though she expected it, the knock at the door still made her jump. She whirled around, standing up so quickly her head began to spin. It was De Villers, his face as placid and inscrutable as it had always been; though she searched for hints, she found none. 

She sat back down on the bed as he entered, and he seated himself on a chair across from her. "Mademoiselle de Civry, I want to thank you for your patience this afternoon," he began. "It is unusual for a discharge committee to meet for such an extended length, and I know that the wait cannot have been easy for you."

"It is nothing, Monsieur," she demurred. If he had come to discharge her, why had he not done it yet? Was this normal? In her lap, her fingers fluttered anxiously, and she smoothed her dress. Maybe it was a test. She fought to remain composed.

De Villiers nodded. "Ultimately the board of doctors who reviewed your case decided that it is necessary for you to remain here for additional observation and treatment--"

She gasped. Before he could finish, a rush of words poured out of her mouth, every breath a frenzied thought-- "I don't understand-- was it something I said or did? What could I have done differently? Please, help me understand-- I thought I was ready..." The world was crumbling around her, bit by bit, everything she'd worked for in the past weeks tumbling down with every passing second. 

The doctor gave a sympathetic half-smile. "Mademoiselle. A moment, please. Because you were involuntarily admitted to the ward, protocol says that your case will be evaluated on a monthly basis after the initial meeting. Should you keep up the progress that we've seen in the past few weeks, I have little doubt that you will be home by this coming Easter."

She tilted her head back in anguish. Easter. So she would miss the wedding. Ruggero would decide he had waited long enough, that hope was a limited resource not worth wasting on a lying woman condemned to a hospital. The world had moved on without her already; if she stayed here any longer, she would never be able to leave. 

"I don't understand," she repeated. "I thought I was doing so much better. I feel so much better; you know that, you said yourself how much better I was doing... What did I do wrong? What did I do to deserve this? I was supposed to attend a wedding of two dear, dear friends in the spring, and now I'll have to miss it and I don't even know why, or what I did..."

He looked at her calmly. "I am not usually the kind of man who forces a person's words back onto them, but I feel I must clear a few misconceptions up. First, regarding the wedding, it is possible that you may attend with a chaperone or guardian, someone to watch over you. We can discuss this as the time comes; however, it seems you have had many visitors to the ward, and it is possible that one of them may be able to escort you to the event." She sighed with relief; however, De Villiers was only beginning. 

"To address your more pertinent questions: you have not said or done anything wrong, nor is it quite right to say you have 'done anything to deserve this'. When you were admitted here, it was with one goal in mind: to help a lonely, suffering woman who felt so desperate that death was her only escape. This you told me yourself.  **The goal is not, and has never been, to simply run through the motions of healing and then release you back into the world.** Even now I still sense your guilt and the resentment you harbor towards yourself: when you're faced with an unexpected situation, Mademoiselle, do you not seek to blame yourself and only yourself?"

She drew her eyebrows together. His talking was incessant and not what she wanted to hear after being told she was to stay. Yet still there seemed to be an inkling of truth to his words, something that seemed to resonate with a small, hurt part deep inside her, a wound she did not even know she still had. 

De Villiers shifted, uncrossing his legs. "Imagine that, right now, you are here because you have broken a bone. An arm or a leg, whichever you please." 

Magda looked down at the loose gauze that still circled her arm and grimaced slightly. The doctor cleared his throat. "Mademoiselle, please. A broken bone." 

She nodded, and he continued patiently. "Do you place blame on yourself for not healing fast enough? Do you curse your own body for not mending that bone fast enough? When the doctor takes an image of the bone and says he must keep the cast on for another week, or another two weeks, is that somehow your fault?" 

Magda shook her head. "It's different. You can't control how fast an arm heals." 

"Ah, but you can," he said. "You can deny that it's broken. You can refuse a cast or sling. You can watch it get worse and pretend the pain doesn't exist, or that you somehow deserve that pain for being foolish enough to break your arm in the first place. But instead, you go to the hospital, and they set your arm, and you simply must wait until you can use that bone again. Such as it is with your own mind: progress takes time. There is no rule created by God or the universe that you will always be better in eight weeks, or ten weeks, or twelve. This is why the field of psychology exists, and why I am here. I am, and have always been, here to help you." 

She bit her lip. "Thank you, Docteur. You have given me a lot to consider." She wanted to be alone, needed to be alone, just to think. She squeezed her eyes together so hard stars swam through the blackness. 

When she opened them, he was standing in the doorway. "I will see you tomorrow for our meeting," he said. "I'll tell the nurse to check on you regularly this evening. Please speak with her if you need anything." 

Magda nodded slowly and he turned away. As soon as his footsteps retreated down the hall, she curled into a fetal position on the bed, shivering, a heaviness in her stomach that she had not felt in a long time. Four more weeks. It might as well have been an eternity, for all that was lost. She wished Adela was there, but she would not see her until after her meeting with De Villiers tomorrow. She would have to suffer the worst of it alone. 

It was only four more weeks, she told herself. She'd still be able to attend the wedding, maybe. Maybe. Two thirds of her visitors happened to be in the wedding party, and that just left Ruggero. Even after he swore he loved her she could not bring herself to believe it; even if he did, it would never last. He would have been quickly tiring of this routine of hope and loss. He deserved better than her, still deserved better than her, a broken, lonely girl lying in a hospital bed, crying with exhaustion and defeat... 

Maybe De Villiers was right, she realized with cold shock. Maybe she  _ wasn't _ ready yet. 

A flurry of voices down the hall; more footsteps. She did not listen. She stared out the window, emotion on her lips like the ocean's spray, eyes burning with that saltwater sting. 

Someone at her door. A nurse. She did not look up. 

"Mademoiselle de Civry?" the woman asked softly. "It's Camille. Can I come in?"

She wiped her face messily on her shoulder and sat up. "I'm okay, Camille. I'm fine." 

Camille came in and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Magda looked up at the nurse, a friendly woman about her age with flaming copper-red hair. 

"Oh, Magda," she murmured as she saw Magda's tear-streaked face. She opened her arms up, and Magda stood and hugged her, closing her eyes tightly. All of her unspoken grief and fear seemed to abate, and again Adela's words echoed in her mind. What were friends for, if not to lean on in times of need? 

After a moment they separated, and Camille smiled. "Better?" she asked. 

Magda took a deep breath. "A little. Thanks." She gave Camille an appreciative half-smile in return. 

Outside her door, a sound-- the whisper of a footstep outside her door, though she could see no-one. She looked to Camille, who grinned widely. "Mademoiselle Magda," she said, a twinkle in her eye, "I've brought you a visitor." 

Her head shot to the hall, her heart jumping. There was only one person it could be, one person who could have known, one person she wanted to see. 

Ruggero stepped through the door and she ran to him, crossing the room in two paces and nearly jumping into his arms. He hugged her tightly, pulling her close, kissing her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Camille slip out of the room with a satisfied smile on her face. Magda turned back to Ruggero.

"You came?" she cried.

"Of course I came. I wanted to be here if you got out."

Her face fell. "I'm sorry. I guess I shouldn't have spoken as I did last week. I didn't know for certain if they would discharge me today, and my expectations got the better of me. I'm sorry you came all this way for no reason." 

He sat next to her on the bed. "It's a pretty place. It's a pretty room." They looked out the window in silence, and he put his arm around her waist. "You don't need to feel guilty about me coming down, Magda. I wanted to see you, whether you got out or not." 

She put her head on his shoulder, and he rubbed her back in gentle circles. 

" **Just because you made a mistake once doesn't mean that you never deserve happiness again** ," he murmured. "And if staying here another two weeks, or another two months, or even another two years... if that's what it takes for you to learn that, then it is time I am more than willing to give." 

She laughed suddenly, caught between joy and tears. "Oh Ruggero," she said. "My God. What did I ever do in this life to deserve you? Sometimes I think you're the crazy one, not me, for staying all this time." 

He pulled her hand into his lap, intertwining their fingers, holding her hand securely between his. "Well," he said. "I guess we'll just be two crazy people together. I believe the best couples usually are."

The sun was beginning to set. The day had seemed so long; her frenzied packing that morning felt as if it was another lifetime ago. 

A sudden thought came to mind. "Speaking of two crazy people in love," she started, and laughed, a genuine, happy laugh. God how it felt good to laugh again. "You'll never guess who came here last week." 

"Who?"

"Lisette and Prunier, and they're engaged! Their wedding is in a few weeks. I meant to tell you when you were here but I was so wrapped up with... you know, other things." 

Ruggero smiled, then raised his eyebrows. "Those really  _ are _ two crazy people in love. They make us both look quite sane by comparison." 

"Ruggero, with the wedding, I was wondering--" 

He looked at her in a curious way that made butterflies flutter low in her stomach. 

"--since I'll still be here, I'll need someone to take me. Hospital rules. I can't go alone. And Prunier and Lisette did say I was invited to bring a date..."

He laughed, a joyous, happy sound, and she looked at him with surprise "You sounded so nervous asking! For a moment I thought you were about to ask for  _ my _ hand in marriage. Although, I suppose, the answer is the same either way. Of course I'll go with you to the wedding; it would be my pleasure. I'd come all the way up from the coast just to accompany you to the post office if it meant I got to spend a quarter of an hour alone with you." 

She blushed at his comment before his words fully registered in her mind. She gasped, playfully hitting his arm. "Wait! What did you say before that? Ruggero!"

He smiled, and she could see that old glimmer in his eye, that same old playful affection; God, how she'd missed him. 

"Tell me! What did you mean that the answer would be the same either way? What are you talking about?"

He embraced her and they tumbled backwards onto the neat bed, giggling, her laying on her back, him reclining next to her, their limbs tangling together. "What did I say?" he asked, feigning innocence. "Oh, I remember. Something about you asking me for my hand in marriage, such a novel idea. Maybe I just had marriage on my mind, with all this talk of weddings." 

She shifted so that they were nearly nose to nose. "And after that?" she asked. He traced his hand down the curves of her face, tracing her jawline with gentle fingers, and she closed her eyes at his touch. "Ruggero..." she murmured, smiling. "Say it." 

He kissed her softly, just for a moment; the feeling was light and precious. "I said something like… that I'd say yes to both. To going to their wedding, or if you'd asked me to marry you. It was sort of a joke. But it wasn't," he assured her. "I meant what I said." 

So she'd heard him right. So even after all they'd been through, he still saw her as the rest of his life. She smiled shyly, turning his words over in her head. "You thought I was proposing to you? That  _ is _ a new idea." She giggled, even as the thought of any engagement between them made her feel spectacularly lightheaded with longing. "That would make you Ruggero de Civry." 

He shifted again so that she lay flat on the bed, and he remained over her. "I don't know," he said lightly. "I suppose it has a nice ring to it. Very noble. But I have to say," he continued, getting deliciously close to her. "I like the sound of Magda Lastouc much better," he whispered in her ear. His breath was warm against her cheek, his face intoxicatingly near hers. She brought a hand up and drew their mouths together. 

To finally kiss him was to take a breath of air after a deep and sudden dive: utterly, divinely necessary. The feverish press of his lips against hers was like water to the dying, a revival, a hope, a cure.  **To feel his body against hers once more was a reassurance that there was still good in this mad, mad world.**

He pulled away gently and looked down, stroking her hair and cheeks. For a moment she scolded herself how foolish it had been to ever leave him, but she caught herself. There was only one way to get herself to where she was now, had only ever been one way to get here, to this perfect moment in time with him. 

To think she had almost given up on all of this. To think how she had resigned herself to a life of grief and loss, and how close she had been to ending everything. 

She reached for his hand, and they intertwined their fingers. She held his hand close to her heart, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers. 

"I'm so lucky," she murmured. "Lucky to be alive, lucky that I ended up here, lucky to have you." 

He smiled and tucked his head next to hers. "I wouldn't have it any other way." 

They held each other for a long time, so long that Magda stopped counting breaths, minutes, seconds and was content to simply be there. A month? She could survive a month. They would survive a month, or two, or however long it took. She couldn't wait to dream of Prunier and Lisette's wedding, of dancing with him under the stars in Paris, of falling in love again and again a million times over. Of counting down the days until the next discharge meeting, when she would be ready and strong and prepared, and of finally seeing him again on the outside, the first day of the rest of their lives together. 

Footsteps in the hall. A tap on the door. She turned over, blinking, trying to fix her dress and hair and still tear-streaked face. It was Camille, standing politely in the hall. She cleared her throat. "Mademoiselle de Civry...?" 

Blushing, Magda stood. "Camille," she said, greeting the nurse mildly, more-than-well aware of the man in the bed behind her. 

The woman smiled back. "Magda," she teased, giving a cheeky smile before she grew professional again. "Dr. De Villiers asked me to check on you again after the conclusion of the meeting today. I would also like to remind you that visiting hours end at six-o-clock, and that, generally speaking, visitors are not allowed in patient quarters, although your... gentleman friend... is to be commended for his persistent nature."

Magda hazarded a glance behind her. Ruggero was sitting up on the bed; when he caught her eye, he winked. She shook her head, laughing, and turned back to the nurse. 

"Thank you, Camille. I'll walk my  _ gentleman friend _ back to the desk in just a moment." The nurse nodded graciously and retreated down the hall. 

Magda turned to him, suddenly tired. Chills crawled across her skin as she looked out the window at the darkening sky. "It's been a long day, Ruggero," she murmured. 

He stood and came around, taking her hands in his. "You survived," he said. She looked up, catching his eyes, the warm hazel now dark and rich in the evening light. He smiled at her. "I know things didn't turn out as you'd hoped. But you survived. Look how much stronger you've gotten," he murmured. "You survived today, and you'll survive tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, until eventually you stop surviving and start living again." 

He slipped his hands out of hers and pulled her into an embrace, her head resting on his chest, warm and study, and she felt safe in his arms. "Thank you. For coming today, for being here, for daring to give me another chance." 

**"You're worth it, Magda. I know what you did was not easy." He kissed her forehead. "You're worth it, worth all of this."**

**For the first time, she believed him.**

They walked down the long white hall together, hand-in-hand, as casual as a stroll on the beach, or through the French countryside, or through the cobbled streets of Paris. The place did not matter. All that mattered was that he was by her side, walking with her down the long road to being okay again. 

Camille was waiting by the nurse's station for them, keys to the heavy ward door in her hand. 

Magda stopped a few paces from the door. "Ruggero," she murmured. "I wish I could go with you." 

He brushed his lips across her temple, holding her close. " **Soon we can go home** . And I'll see you again, certainly before the wedding. Any moment I have to spare, I will be here with you." 

The wedding. She'd already forgotten. **It made her feel warm inside, like the thaw of spring, to dream of a wedding. How beautiful to know that people still fell in love. How beautiful to slowly watch herself become one of those people once more.**

"I'll write you," she promised. 

"I look forward to it." 

She kissed him softly. "I'll miss you. I love you." 

He held her close to him. "I love you," he said. "I always will."

"Always," she replied. It was a promise, a vow that would never be broken. He smiled and stepped away, giving her a lingering, affectionate look. Camille opened the door, and he passed through the doorway and out of the ward, soon to step into the awaiting evening beyond. 

She watched him go, a fragile hope in her chest... no, not a fragile hope. There was nothing fragile about this hope. It was expansive and daring and persistent and would not be shown aside so easily as to call it fragile. Her spirit was tenacious and powerful, and it drove her forward, out of the past and into a brighter tomorrow.

Distant church bells rang through the calm night, and in the garden, at the feet of the white Madonna, the spring roses were beginning to bud.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you all enjoyed <3 I'm so soft for Magda and Ruggero you guys lmao
> 
> one more little surprise coming for those daring enough to ask ;)
> 
> xox and all my love,  
> la rondine


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